A Defence of Tempered Praise and Tempered Criticism in Book Reviewing Patrick Allington HE ACADEMIC, CRITIC AND NUN VERONICA BRADY ONCE WROTE THAT THOMAS Keneally ‘has always been a writer who mattered, even when he is T writing too much too quickly’ (74). For several reasons, I often ponder this brilliant line. First, it captures a fundamental truth—perhaps the fundamental truth—about Keneally’s oeuvre. Indeed, it is an even more accurate appraisal of Keneally’s legacy in 2016, taking into consideration his more than fifty published books, than it was when it appeared in the literary magazine Meanjin in 1979. Second, the brevity of Brady’s observation is admirable: she uses so few words to say so much so well. Third, Brady here offers a mixed critical response: she is at once positive and negative about Keneally, with the two responses commingling rather than competing; her tone is moderate. In this essay, I offer a defence of tempered praise and tempered criticism in book reviewing—or at least, a tempered defence of such responses. Although I review both fiction and non-fiction, here I contain my comments to fiction and use Australian examples. Looking back on over a decade of reviewing fiction (I published my first review of fiction in 2006), I find that, for me, a measured sort of positivity has frequently been my chosen response to individual works of fiction. © Australian Humanities Review 60 (November 2016). ISSN: 1325 8338 141-56 142 Patrick Allington / A Defence of Tempered Praise and Tempered Criticism This positivity is almost never absolute or unstinting; instead, it usually sits amongst measured criticism. I am unsurprised to find various degrees of positivity so well represented in my collected criticism, because my foundational philosophy as a critic—a conscious, considered and long-held starting point—is that it is an achievement to write an average novel or short story. In my view, a ‘reasonably good’ but flawed novel or collection of stories warrants a ‘reasonably positive’ review. I believe this starting point—it is personal, not something I seek to push upon other critics—is consistent with the responsibility of the critic to produce a rigorous and honest critique of a book. It also allows, in my view, a critic to judge a book against a standard of perceived excellence: while it is an achievement to write an ‘reasonably good’ book, that achievement is not the attainment of excellence. Although this essay will make a case for tempered praise and tempered criticism, I agree with Gideon Haigh, whose brief 2010 provocation about what he calls the ‘demise’ of book reviewing in Australia, worries about timid reviewing practices, as well as ‘sheer dullness and inexpertise’ (9, 10). But I see no automatic correlation between, on the one hand, timidity, and on the other hand, a polite, respectful and measured tone. Amongst a mostly intemperate list of complaints about the supposed poor state of book reviewing in Australia, John Dale quotes US writer John Updike’s rules to himself as critic, which include this key point: ‘Try to understand the failure’ (Dale; Updike xvi-xvii). This is, I believe, one key role of the critic: with the right to criticise comes an obligation to do so responsibly. Haigh and Dale both offer examples of what Kerryn Goldsworthy has aptly described as the ‘decline polemic’ (Goldsworthy). The debate can be summarised thus: book reviewers in Australia are incompetent and book reviewers in Australia are bootlickers and cowards and book reviewers in Australia are bullies. As Angela Bennie suggests, ‘What is most evident about these prevailing perceptions, these rumblings, is that they point to a profound mistrust of the motives and the abilities of the critic in our culture’ (10). Bennie published her book in 2006, but the debate remains familiar. I find James Bradley’s 2013 comment convincing: the ‘debate’ about reviewing is really just a stalking horse for a much bigger set of anxieties about what Australian writing is for, and about the democratisation of culture more generally … Those anxieties seem to frame so much of the handwringing about reviewing and standards. (Goldsworthy) Still, if critics currently endure a mixed or poor reputation, or if their relevance is increasingly in question in the digital, democratising moment, this situation is Australian Humanities Review (November 2016) 143 worth pondering. In mounting an argument in defence of tempered criticism, I unavoidably abut one prominent and well-worn element of this debate about the state of criticism. It is this: is there too much softness and/or chumminess in Australian criticism, or, alternatively, is there too much snark? I find this ‘soft versus snark’ dichotomy as inadequate as the ‘three cheers versus black armband’ dichotomy of the inelegantly named history wars. Both dichotomies set artificial boundaries that then dictate the parameters of how a discussion might unfold and how ‘a war’ might be ‘won’. But if I accepted the usefulness of ‘soft versus snark’ dichotomy as a constructive way of appraising the reviewing landscape—I do not, but for a moment I will fake it—my reviews would fall towards the ‘soft’ end. When James Ley, quoted by Goldsworthy, refers to ‘chronic soft-pedalling’, he may well have in mind the sorts of reviews I write. When critic of critics Ben Etherington refers to the ‘compliment sandwich’, ‘four or so paragraphs of positive commentary, then a passing criticism, quickly rescued by affirmation’ (Etherington), he might well be describing one of my reviews, with its mix of modulated positive and negative commentary. In distancing myself here from the ‘soft versus stark’ dichotomy, I hope not to adopt a defensive frame of mind—but if I appear defensive, so be it. Certainly, this essay is subjective. As the English writer and critic Tim Parks puts it, ‘to be impartial about narrative would be to come from nowhere, to be no one’ (50). Reading a novel can never be an objective act, and neither can writing a review of a novel. A review is itself a personal piece of writing, one that emerges not only from a reviewer’s judgment of a book but also form the reviewer’s experiences, beliefs and reading history. In what follows, I reflect on my personal set of beliefs about criticism, about reading, about the importance of purpose of fiction. I do so, at least to an extent, through the techniques and spirit of exegetical scholarship. In the creative arts, exegetical scholarship acts as an appraisal of an artist’s own processes, sometimes (though not always) in the form of a response to, or an explanation of, practice-led research (Dawson 194-5). As Nigel Krauth notes, the term ‘exegetical’, in the context of the creative arts, remains faithful to its original sense of there being a canonical or biblical text ‘that the exegesis supports: i.e., a canonical text that needs explanations’ (emphases in original; see also Kroll). However, there is an obvious difference between explaining, say, Genesis, and explaining your own primary text (Kroll). In turn, exegetical scholarship recognises the personal element of creativity but also of research itself. The creative arts exegesis was initially necessary to help legitimise the creative arts within the academy, but I suggest its utility has now broadened. Exegetical self- reflection helps show and explore some of the possibilities—the necessity, the inevitability—of acknowledging and invoking the personal element that exists in all scholarly research. 144 Patrick Allington / A Defence of Tempered Praise and Tempered Criticism Nonetheless, the personal approach I adopt comes with caveats, including a recognition that western culture currently has a disproportionate focus on the personal. Apart from the increase in exegetical writing emerging from the academy, writers are increasingly required to discuss themselves. As Krauth puts it, ‘Every time a writer is asked to provide a paper, give an informal talk, or contribute an article to a journal in the current Australian or international contexts and in so doing talk about their own work, they are asked to perform an exegetical function’ (emphasis in original). A contemporary focus on the self extends into the broader culture. While writing favourably about US critic Daniel Mendelsohn, Ley reflects on the ‘current obsession with the realities of the self’, which, Ley says, ‘has created a situation in which the public sphere is swamped with the opinions, idle thoughts, revelations, commentaries, review and diaristic ramblings of anyone and everyone’ (Ley, ‘Age of Idiots’). Extending exegetical principles and an exegetical spirit to the context of book reviewing, as I do here, might well sound like self-absorbed navel gazing—because the only thing worse than a critic banging on about, say, why Jonathan Franzen is a fraud, is a critic banging on about what it is like to be a critic banging on about why Franzen is a fraud. More problematically, exegetical commentary can slip too easily into self-justification. In this context, Haigh raises a point about the interconnectedness of the publishing and writing industry: ‘After all, the author might be reviewing us one day, or perhaps already has. In which case, it may, of course, be payback time’ (10). Later in this essay, I comment on Stella Clarke’s scathing 2009 review of my novel, Figurehead. As a critic of fiction who is also a writer of fiction, I do not believe I equivocate to avoid the future unequivocal criticism of others—but I cannot prove it. Similarly, does my earlier point, that it is an achievement to write an average novel or story, reflect a certain sort of sensitivity? I believe not, but it is hardly my call.